


don't you know that you're toxic?

by foxgloved



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark!Clary, F/F, Pre-Femslash, morgenstern!clary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 07:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6146164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxgloved/pseuds/foxgloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“I'm Clarissa Morgenstern,” continues Clarissa. Her eyes are beautiful, but </i>oh<i> are they cruel, scraping across Isabelle like she's intriguing, but a second look shows a gaze of perhaps taking in trash on the bottom of her boot. “You may call me Clary.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you know that you're toxic?

**Author's Note:**

> title from britney, ofc. this is [lesbianlightwood](http://lesbianlightwood.tumblr.com) / [kirargent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent)'s fault for enabling me and it will probably turn into an actual verse sshit. so basically: au where clary is raised by val, because im trash. theres a brief mention of alecmagnus? also mentions of murder, if this does evolve into a verse thatll be talked about later

Isabelle really, really should not be doing this.

But, here she is anyways: hands held stiff at her sides, her dress pinching in at her stomach in a way that's uncomfortable but makes her look gorgeous, and her shoes. Oh, god, the shoes-- and that's not to mention her hair, dipping in along her shoulders, looking like she's just gotten out of the shower. (Somehow, she doesn't think Valentine Morgenstern's daughter will mind; she's not dressing up for _her_ , not exactly.)

A man with a bowtie and a slick suit, his hair combed back and a pronounced red circle rune marking the pale skin of his neck, pats her down to make sure she doesn't have a stele or a seraph blade or anything that could be a potential weapon on her. Isabelle gives him a scathing look when his hands stray too close to her swooping neckline and the expanse of skin there-- she knows she looks hot. She knows she's beautiful. She knows she could make a guy faint by blowing a kiss in his vague direction, but it's not like she's doing it for some crusty forty-something dude.

He takes his hands off her, and Isabelle's glad she doesn't have to cut them off. (She'd've managed it, somehow, even without her whip bracelet.)

And then, she's being whisked along a spiraling hallway, eyes straight ahead instead of on the tumbling chunks of the ceiling, the broken bits of the windows to the side. The runes she'd etched into her skin before coming are starting to burn, swirling out of her nonexistent sleeves and the edge of her skirt-- she clicks her teeth together, used to the scald along her skin.

She finds herself looking straight into the wide green eyes of Clarissa Morgenstern before long, and it takes a few blinks to realize she's stumbled into the dining area. It's extravagant, gaudy jewels gleaming from the ceiling, and Clarissa is the only one at the table, hands folded over each other. Her eyes sparkle brighter than anything on the surrounding walls, and Isabelle finds herself alone, in the doorway and unsure of what to do next.

Clarissa settles a hand into the seat next to her, never taking her eyes off of Isabelle. “Sit,” she says, in a crisp tone. She's dressed rather casual, for a Morgenstern-- her neck burns red and patterns swerve along her sleeves, but other than that, she wears a simple ratty T-shirt and torn jeans. Her eyes only brighten when Isabelle continues to hover a few feet away. “Won't you sit, Miss Lightwood?”

Isabelle presses her hand into her side, and sits.

(It takes shorter than it would in a usual setting to cross the room-- thanks to the speed rune, she supposes. She doesn't let her gaze drop on Clarissa's runes, no matter how much she wants to.)

“I'm Clarissa Morgenstern,” continues Clarissa. Her eyes are beautiful, but _oh_ are they cruel, scraping across Isabelle like she's intriguing, but a second look shows a gaze of perhaps taking in trash on the bottom of her boot. “You may call me Clary.” Her bracelets catch the sparkling lights of the chandelier above when she lowers one to splay across her lap. “Is there a reason you're here tonight, Miss Lightwood?”

Her voice lilts as she says the words, and Isabelle grits her teeth. “Why is your father murdering Downworlders?” she asks, keeping her own tone light as she fiddles with the corner of her skirt. Clary's cool smile drops. “I'm just curious. After all, my future brother-in-law is a warlock.”

She has only brothers, and Clary knows that. Isabelle knows she knows-- it's why she drops the words so simply, tilting her head like she's just challenging for Clary to say something. (What she doesn't say is that her last boyfriend-- and girlfriend-- had been Downworlders. A fairy, and a vampire. Isabelle could hardly be blamed for this.)

Clary says nothing about the remark, only fastens another smile across her pink-tinted lips. She drums her fingers across the tablecloth, curls them around an empty wine glass; there's no food on the table, and Isabelle doesn't expect there will be. “I can't be held accountable for my father's actions,” says Clary, with finality. The lamps above reflect in her gaze, her other hand pressing against her flushed cheek. “If that's all you came for, then, by all means, Miss Lightwood--”

“Isabelle.” She doesn't mean to say it, she swears she doesn't, but it goes tumbling out anyways. Clary's sharp green-eyed gaze flickers over to her, head quirking to the side, and Isabelle chokes on her own words. “It's-- if I'm calling you Clary, you should at least call me Isabelle.”

“All right, Isabelle.” Clary pushes back a few locks of hair, gloved fingers catching for a moment, pale against her auburn curls. “Lovely talk, really. Love to do it again sometime.” It's an offer-- that much, Isabelle can tell even without Clary's pointed glance.

Isabelle doesn't mean to, but she smiles. “As would I,” she says. “Or we could continue this one.”

“Anything you want,” says Clary.

Isabelle has a feeling she means it.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [](http://npdsolo.tumblr.com/>tumblr!!</a></small>)  
> 


End file.
